“Hearken,” Quincey uttered as he drew alongside the caravan master. “We’re not alone, mark me. Draw the wagons into a defensive circle.”

The master, perched high upon the leading wagon with reins in hand, gave him an incredulous look. “Are you mad? We are not even beyond the King’s hunting grounds. Spare me your fearfulness, sell-sword. I’ve enough on my mind without your agitation.”

“I warn you, sir,” Quincey growled, “we are not safe.”

“What we are not,” the master said, “is on time. Two wheels broken and a wagon mired in what was supposed to be a ford have cost us dearly. Or perhaps you thought we traveled by moonlight for a lark?” He snapped the reins, urging the horses onward. “It’ll be a miracle if we reach the markets while there’s still anything worth trading for. Now, get back to your position, sirrah, lest I come to consider you an unnecessary expense!”

Quincey literally could not afford to rebuke him. The meager gelt the merchant paid kept him fed.

But it was worse to be doubted.